Not everyone can carry the weight of the world

It is much too evident to say that sympathy is not unlike a commodity - “good,” itemized much like anything else; charity, a thinly veiled exploitation of self; an extension of vanity. Yet there was a time, not too long ago, when there were selfless individuals who committed to behaving decently, as imposing as that may sound. Michael Stipe is such a consummate human specimen, inside and out. A regimented artist pouring his leftovers to create always consistent integral wealth. Capable of occupying persona’s befitting all of humanity (even the ugly ones). I do not choose to revere him, but rather surrender to him. Over time, and after countless exact works, he has materialized into a surrogate father of the helpless; the miserable; the “low.” Encapsulating all sorrow thru trauma. As it should be (see: Nirvana). In an era where the middle-class was eradicated, and Americans plagued with countless pestilences (AIDS, crack, Reagan), Stipe persevered –transcending all expectations one has of image, sexuality, and artistic shelf life, never bargaining for the sake of profit or lack of imagination (see: Bono, Morrissey, Robert Smith). Mourning came in the form of “Automatic for the People.” Any seething contempt concealed... for the most part (see: “Monster”).